


Morphine and Chips

by TasarienOfCarasGaladhon



Series: A Chair In Its Proper Place [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward sharing of feelings, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Fish & Chips, Gen, His Last Vow Spoilers, I'm having too much fun with these tags, Missing scene from HLV, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock comes home from hospital, Sherlock explains his new muscles, Trekkie Lestrade, johnlock if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon/pseuds/TasarienOfCarasGaladhon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are back at Baker Street after Sherlock's relapse, but they're not quite back to normal. In their own, stilted way, the duo let out some of their feelings and have dinner and a movie. HLV missing scene between Leinster Gardens and Christmas.</p>
<p>Part of the 'A Chair in its Proper Place' series, but can be read standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morphine and Chips

Two days after his return to Baker Street, Sherlock lay on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. A nicotine patch contrasted sharply against the pale skin of his arm, and the scattered cold case files on the floor told John what he was thinking of.

 

“Lestrade's people are useless,” Sherlock told John in lieu of a greeting. “That much hasn't changed.”

 

“Good morning to you too,” John said, making a beeline for the kettle. “Did you read every case file he gave you last night?”

 

“Of course,” the detective answered, lazily scratching his arm. “My sleep patterns were never regular to begin with, but now that I'm weaning myself off the morphine? Impossible to sleep.”

 

John considered this as he made his morning cuppa. “Are you sure you're ready to quit the morphine?”

 

“I know my limits,” Sherlock insisted. “Besides, as you all so _helpfully_ remind me, I am a recovering junkie. Better give it up while I still can, don't you think?”

 

“Sherlock—” John began, unsure of how to word his thoughts. “We just worry about you, that's all. You've spent too much time shut up in this flat lately, and when we next see you you're high and bunking with the smackheads. Oh, I know,” he said suddenly, watching Sherlock open his mouth. “It was for the Magnussen case. But Sherlock, you're a genius. Couldn't you have found a way to convince him, without actually _taking_ the drugs?”

 

Sherlock huffed. Had he been able to, he would have turned to his favorite sulking position, with his long legs tucked into his torso and his back facing John. As it was, he could only turn his head away from the doctor.

 

“I promised nothing would change after my marriage, and I meant it,” John said, quieter now. “I know I haven't been around as much lately, but I will make it up to you. I promise,” he finished, willing Sherlock to turn his head and _look_ at him.

 

“You'll be late for work,” the detective said, still facing the wall.

 

“I don't want to leave like this,” John admitted. “Are you angry with me?”

 

“You don't trust me,” Sherlock said, very quietly. “On an intellectual level I understand why, but it still bothers me more than it should, at least from you. I've never been a trustworthy man, why should I start being one now?” he asked, talking more to himself than to John.

 

The doctor set his cup down on the coffee table. “You didn't trust me with your false suicide plans, and it hurt,” he said, painfully honest. “I don't think you realized just how much I would miss you, and it will take some work to rebuild the trust we had before. But,” he added, resisting the urge to turn Sherlock's head by force, “Mycroft told me why you jumped, when we were waiting to see if you'd live after the shooting. Not what you said, about Moriarty's network. He told me about the snipers, and Serbia.”

 

“I'll kill him,” Sherlock muttered viciously, slightly muffled by the sofa. “I'll kill him, dismember him, and feed him to the wild cats at the London Zoo. Although they'd get indigestion, and it would be unnecessarily cruel to the animals. Maybe I'll just incinerate him and pour his ashes into the sea.”

 

“You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes,” John told him, and his tone told Sherlock that the man was smiling. “Try to hide it if you must, but you are. You're the best friend I could have asked for, and a bloody good best man.”

 

There was a heavy silence. John knew his friend too well to expect a return of the sentiment, especially since he'd already said it at his wedding. Sherlock had faced everything from a best man's speech to a bullet to the chest, just for John.

 

“Now you'll _really_ be late for work,” Sherlock said, but his tone had lightened considerably.

 

“Sod that,” John said firmly, taking a seat on the coffee table. “They can wait.”

 

Finally, the curly-haired man turned his head to face John. His blue-green eyes were bright and clear, so unlike the morphine-induced haze of the past weeks. It warmed John's heart to see his best friend looking like himself again.

 

“You don't need to be sacked for my sake, John,” he said slowly, a tiny smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “I'll manage with Mrs. Hudson and some crap telly.”

 

“Promise?” John asked, raising his eyebrows.

 

“Promise,” Sherlock agreed. “Now go! I expect to hear brilliant observations of each patient when you come home,” he added.

 

“But I've never done that,” John objected. “I thought my job in this partnership was to save the lives, not to solve the murders.”

 

“You can start small, and work your way up to murder. Find some cheating spouses or teenagers with a gaming addiction,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “You know my methods, John. Now apply them.”

 

“I'll do my best,” John agreed, resigned. “Best be off, then. Text if you need anything.”

 

Sherlock didn't answer. He had picked up his mobile and was busy composing a text to Lestrade.

 

* * *

 

John returned after work, with takeaway from Sherlock's favorite fish and chip shop. He found Sherlock exactly where he'd left him, though he'd finally fallen asleep. The detective looked younger like this, more vulnerable than usual.

 

Unfortunately, the smell of the fish and chips woke him.

 

“What time is it?” he asked drowsily. “Seven?”

 

“Half seven,” John replied, impressed with Sherlock's internal clock. Or perhaps he'd deduced the time from the amount of light coming in through the windows. Either way, it was typical of Sherlock to be more aware of his surroundings while half-asleep than a fully awake, normal human.

 

“I see you visited Edwin,” Sherlock said, slowly raising himself to a sitting position.

 

“Brought your favorite,” John answered, setting the takeaway down on the table. “Extra portions, of course. I _might_ have mentioned that you've been in hospital and need proper food.”

 

“You're a lifesaver,” the detective told him, inhaling as deeply as his wound would allow. “As much as I neglect my transport, these five weeks of hospital food have taken their toll. I'll need Mrs. Hudson's cooking to, what was your phrase? Feed me up?”

 

John chuckled. “She'll be delighted. You took good care of yourself while you were away, though,” he observed, remembering how thin Sherlock had been when John had first met him. “Mycroft told me you'd been in prison, but you had quite a bit of muscle mass when you came back.”

 

“How kind of you to notice,” Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow in a way that on anyone else, might have been called flirtatious. “While I was away,” he explained, sitting and picking up a chip, “I had to rely on brawn more often than I'd expected, especially since I was always outnumbered. Three or four months into my exile, I began a strict exercise regimen and added more protein into my diet. It was dull, but necessary.”

 

“And you were taking the mickey out of _me_ for cycling,” John retorted, but there was no bite to it. “When your chosen form of exercise is to take down criminal networks, by what? Boxing? Martial arts?”

 

“That would be telling,” Sherlock answered in between bites of fried fish.

 

“Oh, come on!” John cried, then taking a swig of his beer. “Give me _something_ , Sherlock!”

 

“I picked up some krav maga from a contact in the Netherlands,” Sherlock admitted. “I wasn't there long, just a few weeks, but it was enough to get me started. A few months later, I was infiltrating Moriarty's people in Germany, and that's where I joined the local gym. They offered a mixed martial arts class in the evenings.”

 

John munched on his haddock, incredulous. Sherlock had always been agile, but it was strange to imagine him in a dojo somewhere, dressed in a bleached cotton _keikogi_ , and learning attacks and holds without declaring them boring and storming out with a swish of his Belstaff.

 

“Will you show me some moves, sometime?” he asked finally.

 

Sherlock laughed. “John, right now _you_ are the only man I could fight.”

 

“Oi!” the doctor protested. “I've gained _three_ pounds, Sherlock! I could still take down your obnoxious arse any day of the week!”

 

“It's not that,” the detective replied, waving a chip dismissively. “You are the only opponent that would pull punches to avoid aggravating my injury.”

 

Oh. Well, that was a good point, the doctor had to admit.

 

“I didn't say it had to be tonight, Sherlock,” John said, appeased. “When you're better, obviously.”

 

Sherlock finished his dinner with a happy sigh, and leaned back in his chair. “Very well. For now, though,” he added, “we have a job to do for Lestrade.”

 

“I thought he wasn't giving you field work for at least another week!” John cried, alarmed.

 

“Not that,” the detective said. “I wish! But no, I have orders to watch every single one of these films,” he said with disgust. “George brought them 'round while you were out.”

 

“I think you mean _Greg_ ,” John corrected automatically, then looked at the pile of DVDs. “I had no idea he was a Trekkie!”

 

“A _what_?”

 

The soldier laughed at Sherlock's confused expression. “Don't worry, I don't think it's contagious. You and Mr. Spock will get along like a house on fire, though,” he added. “His attitude toward logic and sentiment is similar to yours.”

 

“Really?” Sherlock asked skeptically. “So by the end of the films, does he suddenly understand the value of sentiment and abandon his principles? That's how it usually goes.”

 

“Just watch the bloody films, Sherlock,” John ordered, groaning as he sat in his chair. “Go on.”

 

The younger Holmes brother sighed dramatically, and went to wash his hands, taking his sweet time. John stared with a raised eyebrow until Sherlock picked up _Star Trek: The Motion Picture_ , and put it in the DVD player.

 

“Relax, this isn't even mindless violence,” John said soothingly. “It's sci-fi, you might actually like it.”

 

Sherlock shut him up with a glare, but sat in his green leather armchair and watched the film. He didn't even complain at the end.

 

Of course, that may have been because he'd fallen asleep.

 


End file.
